Backstairs
by Dr. Mini Pie
Summary: Has Ishizu's interview at the Kaiba Corporation gone incredibly wrong or right? Very mild Trustshipping. One-shot.
**Doctor's Note:** Ishizu has always been one of my favorite characters, and her post-canon life frequently intrigues me—especially when anything Kaiba is involved! I hope you enjoy her anecdote. - Dr. Mini Pie

Warnings: One use of 'God.'

* * *

If one were to inquire after my most memorable experience in recent memory, I'd be inclined to tell the story of my latest job interview.

I've worked here for eight months, and so far I have loved every moment of it in the way one loves a challenging subject in school, or a stubborn child. The returns of success will be splendid, and the fight is more than worth it; even so, it can at times seem like an impossibly difficult endeavor.

I suppose I have an advantageous perspective on the whole situation, since I...well. To explain my unique position would be to spoil the end of my story, and I won't ruin it for you. My brother tells me I am a poor storyteller—he may be right, but you'll see that I'm learning.

Last June I found myself 'pounding the pavement' of the streets of Domino City in search of a job. My family had recently moved from Egypt for the sake of my brother's job, which necessitated I quit my own. I did not mind, for I value my brother's happiness above my own; besides, I had grown tired of my former position at the museum. It is not good to chain oneself to articles of the past when one's heart is wont to move on.

My skills lay in research, and so my job hunt began with a more traditional and accessible focus on libraries. Yet I couldn't help but feel overqualified standing in the midst of Nancy Drew novels, crayon boxes, and posters of Oprah Winfrey encouraging children to read. A week of such frustration went by.

On Monday of my second week, I stepped out of the downtown library into the heat of the day, feeling more drained than ever. I lifted my résumé binder to shield my eyes from the sun, and in so doing found the source of the blinding glare. Across the street stood the tallest building in Domino City, covered in glittering walls of glass: the Kaiba Corporation.

I admired the architecture for a spell—one could not help but do so—but soon began to turn an idea over in my head. The Kaiba Corporation employed a sizeable percentage of Domino City residents. Its ratings were impressive and consistent. Surely an adept researcher would be welcome at such an innovative company. Though I'd had only brief encounters with technological research, I knew enough to get by.

I decided on the spot that I had nothing to lose, and wiping the sweat from my brow, I crossed the street to Kaiba Corp. and submitted my résumé.

The following day I received an auspicious telephone call. My résumé had piqued the interest of the company, and I was in consideration for a research fellowship in the handheld gaming department. This position was entry-level, but the proffered salary figures and benefits were far from it. Indeed, I would not know what to do with such an income!

I was further shocked by the company's extension of an interview invitation for Wednesday morning at eleven. Of course I hastened to accept. However wildly unprepared I felt, I knew this was an opportunity I could not forgo.

Butterflies took up residence in my stomach from that moment on. I set my alarm several hours too early, yet I didn't need it for I barely slept. I selected my finest dress and was careful to avoid any obstacles on the train ride into the business district. In my near-hysteria I thanked the gods for everything: the sunny weather, the timely train, even for the life-saving cup of coffee I clutched between my trembling hands.

When at last I disembarked I marched along the path I had memorized from a map on the Internet: up the glistening staircase, past the imposing Blue-Eyes White Dragon statues, and straight into the grand lobby. Two hours and nine minutes too early.

Where fell the line between 'prompt' and 'insane'? I ignored the voice in my head and took a seat just beyond the glittering Blue-Eyes White Dragon fountain. Surrounded by pleasant plants and clutching my comforting cuppa, I imagined myself hidden away in my own private jungle and quelled my nerves. I produced a novel from my bag—ironically a rental from one of the libraries—and began to read to pass the time.

I tried and failed not to lose myself in the story, and I am not sure how much time passed. I was only shaken out of my reverie by a shout of surprise, and a sudden, painful flattening of my left foot.

"I'm so sorry! Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?!"

A gangly young man towered over me, face obscured by a messy mop of hair and massive, heavy-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a caterer's uniform and had run over my foot with his cart of covered dishes.

"I'm fine—" I began, but he could not be consoled. He yanked at great clumps of his hair.

"I'm such an _idiot!_ Are you sure you're okay? _Geez_ , I'm sorry!"

"I'm fine," I said again through clenched teeth, for in all his distress he had forgotten to move the cart. "Only the cart—it's still on my—"

"OH! I am SO, SO sorry! Here, let me—" The young man yanked the cart off my foot with such force that it flew backward and collided with the end table beside me. What was left of my coffee came tumbling straight into my lap.

"OH GOD!" He lurched forward and swiped the cup to the floor with a surprisingly deft flick of his wrist. But it was all in vain.

We both stared. The rich blue and gold tones of my dress found themselves consumed by a dingy, flowering shade of mocha. Thank the gods I had drunk most of my coffee and that it had only sprinkled my library book—but the dress, and the interview, were both surely ruined.

I looked up, fully prepared to give this bumbling caterer a piece of my mind—but his expression stopped me dead.

"It's alright," I said. I stood. My foot throbbed, and my dress felt dreadfully damp. The most important interview of my career began in twenty minutes. Yet the guilt and shame on this young man's face so vividly resembled the guilt and shame I had beheld on another, much younger face. I could not but see my brother in this boy.

"It's alright," I repeated as he whimpered, hunched over in defeat. He risked a glance at me through his thick lenses. His magnified eyes were a dazzling blue.

"...are you sure?" he almost whispered.

"Yes." Somewhere I found a smile. "I'm sure." I indicated his cart. "You have somewhere to be?"

It took him several moments to process my forgiveness and to register my remark. When he did, he gasped and sprung back into clumsy action.

"Oh, y-yes—Mr. Kaiba's board meeting—this has to—I have to go—"

He swung the cart around with characteristic lack of grace, then realized his haphazardness and overcorrected, colliding with the rim of the fountain. But in all this display, he disrupted not another hair of my head.

The young man raced off without a backward glance, making a beeline for the elevator and sending other employees scrambling out of his path. I watched him go until I remembered the urgency of my own situation, and then I myself scrambled to find the closest women's restroom.

After many futile passes with a Tide pen and wet paper towels, I resigned myself to holding my binder over my lap with militant dedication. And in the end, it mattered little. My interviewer only politely inquired once we were through, and I explained what had occurred.

"That's odd," he said, scratching his trim goatee. "There was no catering requested for that meeting, as far as I know."

"He seemed very out of sorts," I suggested. "He may have meant another meeting."

"True, true." My interviewer smiled at me. I seemed to have earned his trust—and indeed, I was invited back to the Kaiba Corporation for a second interview the following afternoon.

This time I wore a dress of which I was rather less fond and elected to finish my coffee at home. I had nothing to fear, however, for there was not a caterer to be found anywhere in the Kaiba Corporation that day.

My second interview finished so well that my interviewer offered to walk me to the train station; I happily obliged. She and I made our way down the many flights of stairs to the lobby—she was pregnant and sought the exercise—and we chatted with amiable spirits.

Just as we emerged onto the first floor, we were blocked by a passing procession of businessmen and women. They were flanked by security personnel and appeared to possess some measure of status.

"There's Mr. Kaiba!" my interviewer exclaimed, tugging at my sleeve. Sure enough, in the midst of the mob and easily the tallest strode Seto Kaiba—dark and handsome in a midnight blue suit, though his hair was a bit long. He heard his name and shot a severe, icy-blue glance in our direction before he and his party exited the lobby.

I remarked on the president's shaggy hair to my interviewer. She acted taken aback by my boldness, but she was smiling.

The two of us continued our chat on the platform as we waited for my train to arrive. "I think you'd be an excellent addition to our research team," she was intimating, and at that moment her palm pilot chimed. "Oh, excuse me."

I inclined my head. "Of course."

She read her message, and her eyes grew wide.

"It's regarding your application," she said, barely believing what she read. "It says you're not to report for any additional interviews. You're hired!"

My own eyes became saucers. "You cannot be serious," I insisted. I had read accounts of others applying at the Kaiba Corporation, and in every instance they had endured seven interviews at the very _least_.

"I'm serious!" she said with a furious nod. "I just can't believe it—this message." She held up her palm pilot. "It's from Mr. Kaiba himself!"

On the train ride home, in the midst of my giddiness at the prospect of starting such an exciting job, I was also bemused by the circumstances surrounding my appointment.

His face had seemed so familiar because it _was_ familiar. That my character would be submitted to such a judgment—I was both affronted and tickled to no end.

Eight months and many catered luncheons later, and still no sign of the gangly, blue-eyed busboy!


End file.
